


A Kiss Sweeter Than Cream and a Smile Brighter Than Sunlight (Teapots and Copper Kettles)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afternoon Tea, Angst, Class Difference, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, as in it’s pretty lonely up in bag end all by yourself, frodo pining for sam, frodo waxing poetry about sam’s smile because how could you not, implied sexual innuendo?, just a whole lotta kissing tbh, kind of?, not really but like if you look for it it’s there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Frodo finds himself quite lonely in Bag End, all by himself.But, he realises, there is someone who fills that space; someone who has done it effortlessly, all his life.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 15
Kudos: 145





	A Kiss Sweeter Than Cream and a Smile Brighter Than Sunlight (Teapots and Copper Kettles)

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm this is the longest oneshot I’ve ever posted, and I’m not too great at catching grammatical errors so hopefully there’s not too many. 
> 
> But I love these two absolute sweethearts and I just want them to be happy. takes place before canon but like let’s just pretend the ring doesn’t exist and these two can grow old together and just be happy okay.
> 
> (Edited to fix the weird spacing issue)

Carefully, Frodo removes the kettle from atop the fireplace. He can feel the warmth of the golden flames lapping against his fingertips and he can see the steam softly floating out of the kettle’s pointed spout. Tarnished copper, old and dented and well-used, it’s one of the few items that Frodo cannot bear to part with; another dear memory of evenings spent sitting with Bilbo, speaking of the lands beyond the Shire and worlds where elves and men and dwarves live amongst endless cities and vast kingdoms.

He lingers in front of the warmth of the fireplace, lost in the bittersweet feeling of long gone memories, before reluctantly stepping back with a sigh as he carefully places the kettle down onto the table. It lands with a thud, a loudness that echoes amongst the empty halls of Bag End. Sometimes, on occasions such as these, Frodo is made startlingly aware of just how empty this smial is – of just how truly lonely his life can be.

The kitchen can be a bit chilly at this time of year, especially against Frodo’s bared forearms – he’s still not got into the habit of wrapping up for the cold that’s beginning to settle in. It’s the middle of autumn, the most awkward point of every year where it is simply still to warm to keep the fire roaring at every second of the day, yet too cold for the sun against the window panes to properly heat up the smial.

It means Frodo’s eternally trapped between fires that are too small, that don’t quite warm up each corner of each room and leave the empty space chilled and cold; or the other option of large fires that burn too hot for too long and leave him sweltering in muggy heat, choking on humid air and wishing that he could take his own skin off, just for one second of refreshing cool.

His toes curl uncomfortably against the coldness of the tiled floorings. He knows that it’s much colder outside, he’d seen the frosted spiderwebs like crystalline sugar betwixt the bare twigs and branches of the trees. Like a blanket of diamonds, the gardens had been coated in the whispers of coming winter.

Really, he should be thankful that he can afford to stay holed up indoors, away from the biting winds and iced mornings, instead curling up with hefty tomes and dusted pages, fingers stained permanently with ink and back stiff but warm enough slumped in his study’s chair.

He thinks of Sam, who will be cheerfully raking up the fallen leaves, depositing them on the compost heap where they’ll remain until early spring. Slowly decomposing, disappearing into fertilised soil that will be used to brighten the flowers’ petals and strengthen sprouting saplings, a circle of life all carefully guided by Sam’s gentle hands.

Frodo can imagine the soft tune he’ll be humming, probably one of Bilbo’s old songs, or maybe something he’d been singing at the Green Dragon a few nights prior. His tune will be soft and gentle, a murmur in the back of his throat as he goes about his many duties. Frodo can imagine the way he looks under the high sun, burning in the centre of the silver sky. He will be bathed in the autumn light, glistening under the trace of gold, highlighted by the blinding reds and deep auburns of Bag End’s autumnal gardens.

He sees Sam’s smile vivid in his mind, the beautiful, ethereal glow of honeyed eyes; speckled with jewels of shimmering amber and flecks of forest greens. Sam’s face is split in a blinding grin, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold caress of wind and his hair curled about him in a halo of gold.

With a sudden start, Frodo shakes himself from his thoughts. Blinking heavily, dissipating the smiling vision of Sam at the forefront of his thoughts, he wills himself to concentrate on the real world.

He can feel heat rising to his cheeks and the hot flush sparked against the very tips of his ears. Even though he is quite alone (as it always is, here up in Bag End) and there was nobody to witness his dazed smile or his distant, puppy dog gaze; he feels suddenly quite foolish with himself.

He should not be standing here smiling like a fool, thinking about Sam in such a way. He is supposed to be Sam’s master – although such a thing has always left a bad taste in his mouth. He does not _own_ Sam. Sam is not below him, regardless of status and structure; he wishes he could live in a world where Sam saw himself as an equal, where they could enjoy each other’s company without the fear of rumours containing unsavoury images spreading across the Shire like wildfire. A world where Sam isn’t restrained the constant fear of overstepping ones place; causing an offence that will not happen – for nothing Sam could do could ever hurt Frodo.

For him to act on such feelings would be most improper, not even accounting the abuse of power it would contain. Not with intent, of course. Frodo could never take advantage of anyone in such a way, let alone Sam.

That’s his biggest fear, really. That if he were to lose his carefully maintained composure, let his feelings slip and open up the tightly wound strings of his heart, Sam would throw his life away to please him. No good things could come of an imbalance of power, of status, such as theirs and if Sam were to feel pressured into such a relationship, fearful of his position at Bag End if he were to reject Frodo, (for there were stories. It was not something that commonly happened in the likes of Hobbiton, but there was always a master somewhere who was willing to use such underhanded methods for physical gratification) well… that was a thing that Frodo simply could not bear to live with. The embarrassment of rejection, for starters. But the pain that would arrive hand in hand with it. How would he ever look at Sam again? How could he gaze into those honeyed eyes knowing that such a love could not be returned?

He could not survive, he could not continue to stay here, high up on the hill, with Sam – someone who he could never have – only right next door.

He forces his racing nerves back, shaking his head from side to side as if he could banish such thoughts, like they were a persistent damselfly, or something akin to an unwanted pest.

He breathes slowly, deeply, in through his nose as he moves about the kitchen, feet tapping light rhythms against the floor. _Ground yourself,_ he whispers under his breath. The life of a bachelor is isolated and he has grown accustomed to living within his own head. But he must remember that, no matter what flashes across his fleeting thoughts, Sam would never intend to hurt him and he was far too stubborn – _that Gamgee blood within him_ , as Bilbo would have said – to be coerced into an unsavoury relationship, not that Frodo would ever attempt such a thing. _Ground yourself._ He repeats, for it is important to think of what you have, not what could be – good or bad.

It is only when he has firmly removed himself from the world hidden within his own head that he eventually finds what he is looking for; something that, once his mind has been set to the task, happens with the headless ease of someone who has done such thousands of times before. From within the very depths of one of the cupboards, the one that sits just above the bread-bin, Frodo reveals a pair of decently sized china teacups. They’re embellished with a silver rim, painstakingly hand-painted with delicate blue flora, surrounded by wreaths of curled leaves. He thinks the flowers are a strange sort of plant called love in the mist, the same ones that Sam had just finished planting. Ones that will blossom in their lilac blue come summer, hidden sapphires amongst the sea of their spiked green leaves that appear soft like sheep’s wool.

Taking great care, he balances the teacups on top of one another, stacking their matching saucers and – once his hands are free – reaching for their teapot. It’s slightly chipped on the spout, some of the silver paint sparse through old age and frequent use, but that doesn’t detract from the simple yet refined impression they give – truly a fine mathom of sorts that had been passed down throughout the Baggins family. They’re arguably far too fine a set for something as simple as afternoon tea, probably far more suited to an luncheon spent with other hobbits of high status, certainly not the sort of casual event of afternoon tea that Frodo has spent the last few weeks working up the courage to pull off.

Sure, him and Sam frequently share meals but there’s something different about this, the intimacy of sharing tea and exchanging stories, sitting close and enjoying one another’s company on a personal level that has never truly been breached. His aunt would probably have a fit if she knew such finery were being prepared for his gardener, for such expensive china would typically be limited to the gentlehobbits sort, not usually for those who she would deem ‘subservient’, more tools to be used than actual hobbits to treat with respect.

However, Frodo was never one for things such as propriety and all this class-based nonsense that others seemed to revel in. If he wants to treat his dear gardener with a steaming cup of tea in his best set china then he will; regardless of what may be considered ‘proper’ of him. He’s ‘mad Baggins’. The crazy, lonely bachelor who lives at the top of the hill, isolated and lonely with nothing to do but read crazy old Bilbo’s make-believe stories. He’ll do what he likes and he’ll treat Sam – someone who has never even uttered a word against him – like the good friend he is.

After finding the tray – also matching, as all the finest tea-sets are – he stacks each item carefully, saucers then teacups and the empty teapot standing proud in the centre, before he takes it over to the small-ish ( _cozy_ , as he refers to it) kitchen table. With the swirling tempest of his thoughts tensed at his muscles, he slams the tray down with more force than one would consider necessary. Rattling, the cups shake on their china podiums and Frodo feels an unusual defensive spurt of anger fizzling in the ends of his fingertips, sharp static tracing the creases of his fingerprints. _It’s not fair,_ he thinks. _Why should Sam be treated any differently from him? Because he wasn’t born in the ‘right family’, whatever that is? Because he works more in one day than some hobbits have worked in their entire lives? It’s not fair!_

Forcing his anger down, as it is an unfamiliar emotion, (he has never been one for hotheadedness) but when it concerns the treatment of others – of dear Samwise – a defensive fury comes naturally to him. He knows he cannot change the structure of their society, the class-focused nature of hobbits and their sharpened tongues when convention is broken, but he is painfully aware of how – if things were only a bit different – a promise of something more with Sam would not have the risk that it carries now. Both for their genders and their class, for a hobbit who would never have children and a hobbit who was perceived as rising above his station were two things that many would look down upon. They would have to deal with both.

He adds the boiling water to the teapot, mixing it up with the tea leaves before leaving it to steep. The water steams in plumes of fired smoke, like the puffing breath of a dragon – Frodo is always reminded of the one Bilbo has met on his adventure.

The tea is a spiced apple blend, with a kick of cinnamon and ginger; autumnal flavour that seems perfect for the chilling weather. _Warms the core_ , as Bilbo used to say. The smell wafts over, swirling betwixt the rising steam. It’s strong, like the burning oranges of the falling leaves. Bright and bold and bursting with flavour. He hopes Sam likes it.

As he waits for the tea to steep, he falls back into muddled thoughts. He wonders if he’ll ever have the courage to bare the matters of his heart to Sam, to speak of the hot blood that runs through his cheeks and the caged bird that beats inside his rib cage, a fluttering heart longing to be set free.

Their relationship, if his love was accepted, would have intricacies about it, though.. He knows that there will be talk, for there always is with hobbits, and while he does not care what sharp words they may have for the mad master on Bagshot Row – for he has had to live with such judgement for much of his life – the thought that people could treat Sam with anything other than the utmost kindness terrifies him.

He could not bear it if any were to think poorly of dear Sam. If they were to whisper over cups of steaming tea or laugh and jeer with a half-pint sloshing onto their hands, whisper about impropriety and disrespect; unconventional relationships and unnatural love. To hear such cruelness directed at Sam, hardworking and loyal and selfless, would shatter his heart like a dropped vase, smashing him into thousands of tiny glass pieces that one could never hope to put back together.

Would they become scornful of him? Say that Sam was reaching above his rightful position? Looking for riches and wealth, being used by his ‘master’?

He would undergo any sort of trial, no matter how trying, no matter the hardships he may have to face; if it meant being with Sam, ( _His_ Sam, he longs to call him. _If only he could._ ) but he could not bear to add any hurt to the other. If he knew that a relationship between them would only cause grief and pain, lost friends and family disputes, he would rather spend the rest of his days alone.

The back of his throat grows clogged with a silent cry and he lets out a cough, trying to shake off the sinking of his mood.

He should enjoy the small amount of time he gets to spend with Sam, rather than wasting the waning day on such somber thoughts. Besides, thinking of _what ifs_ never does any good. He needs to spend more time in the real world, focusing on what he already has – as opposed to what he wants.

The tea has probably steeped long enough and he carefully strains it, watching intently as the liquid, a golden colour that matches Sam’s eyes so closely, fills the delicate china cups. He stirs in a spoonful of honey into one (just how Sam likes it) watching it slowly disappear from the spoon, delicately sweetening the tea.

He places it all on the tray, two cups and their saucers and the half empty teapot. There appears to be acres of room left, the tea-set swallowed by infinite endless space. It’s not enough, really. It looks vacant, _half finished._ It’s not good enough, not for Sam.

_Maybe he should get some food? A scone or a tea cake. Something light, with jam and cream, maybe._ Afternoon tea is usually a small meal, never big enough to ruin one’s appetite before dinner.

_Would Sam like that? Or would he rather something else? He has been working all day… so maybe something more substantial would be better._ Dinner is only right around the corner though, for Frodo had been lost in his work before he had spied the time. _A large meal now would spoil that if later. Then maybe he should invite Sam to stay round for dinner…_ there’s always so much work to be done in mid-autumn and surely he can persuade Sam to eat here… he used to be much more inclined to stay round, when he was younger. As of recently, however, he seems to have grown startlingly aware of their positions, their different statuses and how he ‘should’ be acting.

The Gaffer has taught Sam well, but Frodo misses the closeness they once shared that seems to have been replaced by Sam’s flushed face and nervous mumblings. Frodo can not help but wonder if Sam becomes anxious in his presence, or if his rouged cheeks are a sign of something else…

_So a light meal now would be best, surely. Is that right? Would that be okay? Surely that will be fine._

Sam won’t mind, either way, Frodo realises with a shake of his head. He’s always so thankful, so grateful, for anything anyone ever does for him. He’s like that. So selfless, so generous, than any act of kindness towards him is always accepted with surprise. It’s as if he’s not expecting for people to treat him so kindly. As though he thinks he is not worthy of kindness from others, or Frodo specifically.

He’s too nice for his own good sometimes, Frodo thinks. He can’t help but worry about him sometimes. Working so hard and for so long out in those gardens, all by himself. It must get lonely, out there.

Frodo blindly wonders if Sam is just as lonely as him.

He’s being ridiculous. Sam has a large family, his Gaffer and his three sisters all living together in that tiny smial. His two brothers too, who – on special occasions – will come down from their own smials, bringing their wives and a whole posset of fauntlings that will badger Sam for stories and games to play. If anything, Sam probably enjoys the peace and quiet. A time to be away from others, for everyone in Hobbiton seems to have a kind word for him. He can’t be lonely.

_He won’t want you. He’ll want a family. A beautiful wife, like that sweet Rosie Cotton who has mischievous eyes and blonde curls that catch the sunlight just so._

Dithering about, Frodo eventually settles on serving the tea with some scones. He’d bought some fresh the other day, they’d be perfect with a bit of raspberry jam and clotted cream. Besides, he’d seen Sam eyeing them fondly when they’d sat out on the kitchen side. He has such a sweet tooth, and he always has been so fond of his food – a healthy appetite, as any hobbit should have.

He prepares it all quickly, applying generous amounts of jam and cream to the scones before quickly piling them up on a plate, deftly reorganising the tray. With his hands resting on his hips, he decides it looks much better now. Much more impressive, yet still casual enough that Sam shouldn’t find it strange.

He feels strangely nervous, his hands shaking slightly as he looks at his finished product. It’s a bit ridiculous, really. Why’s he so anxious about this? He’s just giving afternoon tea to his gardener, his closest friend, the person who seems to brighten rainy days and warm frosty mornings, just with a crinkle of his eyes and a quirk of his lips.

It feels much bigger than that, somehow.

Maybe it’s true. That actions speak louder than words.

What happens if Sam takes offence? He can be strange like that, sometimes. No matter how hard Frodo pushes to give him a raise, he’s always steadfastly refused. _I get what I work for,_ is what he says. _It’s that Gamgee blood in him_ , as Bilbo used to comment, smiling fondly at a younger Sam, arms folded right across his chest as he demanded his gaffer to let him help in Bag End garden.

He’s just like his father, in that way. Once he’s got his mind set on something, he won’t budge.

Frodo does not think he has ever seen Sam get angry, for he is far too gentle-hearted for such a thing to occur, but he has been on the other end of a solid gaze and stiffened lips, a stubborn sentence that will not budge no matter how much Frodo presses. It usually happens when Frodo insists Sam gets a raise - he’s paid to care for the gardens, but he’s constantly indoors, cleaning and dusting and tidying, preparing fires and making sure there’s always a steaming bath ready for Frodo at the end of a particularly trying day. Adamantly, he refuses to take help if he doesn’t think he’s earned it.

It doesn’t matter how much anyone tries to convince him otherwise, Samwise has an unshakeable mind and he will not concede; no matter what.

_What happens if he doesn’t like this? What happens if-_

He’s being utterly ridiculous now. If anything, Sam will be overjoyed at the gesture. Even when he’s being as stubborn as any mule, he has never had sharp words for Frodo. His tone may become no-nonsense, clear and strong and immovable, but never once has he directed anything other than the utmost care and respect Frodo’s way. He’s always like that. Always a beam of optimism on Frodo’s bleakest days.

_Why’s he overthinking this? Why is he so stressed, so worried, about this?_

He needs to stop focusing on every tiny thing. It’s _Sam._ That’s why he’s doing this. He’s doing it for the glimpse of a blinding smile. He’s doing it to watch the crinkles appear around his golden eyes, the soft pink that Frodo knows will dust his freckled cheeks and set alight his sun-kissed skin in a strawberry flush. Sweeter than any pot of jam or cream, more valuable than all the riches on Middle Earth.

He steels himself, knowing that he’s got to go outside at some point and he might as well do it before the scones go stale and the tea turns cold.

_Sam will love it. You know he will. And you’ll love to see him happy._

With the tray held tightly in his hands, he goes to leave. The front entrance will be the best course of exit. Sam had said he wanted to cut back one of the holly bushes that had been getting particularly overgrown, thorny leaves spreading too far across the roughed our paths, little daggers that scratched into soft skin. That’s where he’ll be, carefully and painstakingly snipping away at those darkened leaves, preparing for the gleaming berries that will swell under the cold ministrations of coming winter. Glistening rubies betwixt seas of green.

Frodo can see the slope of his jaw, imagine the familiar brow furrowed in concentration and the plump lips ever so slightly parted, a tiny slither of tongue poking out as he works with hands like magic on the plants of Bag End gardens. Lips shiny where he’s licked them, long eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks, light like his golden hair that curls so sweetly around the tips of his ears. His strong arms, with muscles tightly tensed, leading to large hands, spattered with fine blond hairs, strong yet gentle, carefully tending to the holly bushes; carefully avoiding the sharpened leaves that leave reddened cuts across his tan skin.

It is with one deep breath that Frodo exits the kitchen, makes the slow walk down to the front door and steels himself for what is to come. With a sudden flush of wonder, a thought of the unknown, he questions when he’d become so sentimental. When he’d began to wax poetry about the light of one’s smile, of the expanse of someone’s eyes that one could get lost in for an eternity. Of wanting to be with that person who makes the days brighter and the nights shorter.

Maybe that’s the effect that Sam has on him. Maybe Sam is that person who can banish the cold embrace darkness.

In an awkward balancing contest, his left knee raised as Frodo tries to manage simultaneously opening the door and not spilling the contents of the tray over the freshly mopped floors, the world outside is slowly revealed.

Chilling air floods in, the soft autumn light filtered through the fired leaves falling in fractured speckles across his face. Without even leaving the smial, Frodo can clearly see the soft plume of smoked breath leaving his lips, warm air dissipating into the cold autumn frost. Once again, he is reminded of Bilbo’s stories. Like Smaug’s exhales of flame, his own lips produce their own kind of fire in their warmth.

With a hesitant step outside, bare feet reluctantly stepping down onto the cooled rock path, he leaves the warm comfort of his smial. The hairs on his bared forearms stand on end, goose-pimples dappling his skin, roughening the smoothness of his arms. 

Taking in the quiet beauty of Bag End, no longer alight with the blooming colours of warmed spring and the sweltering hotness of summer, yet aflame with the softening oranges and pinks of the world preparing for the grey of winter – a last burst of colour before the Shire is put under a monochrome filter – he shuts out the warmth behind him. Frodo carefully makes his way across the well kept lawn, the soles of his feet tickled by the gentle grace of cut grass. There is no risk of a patch of thistles amongst Bag End garden, for Sam does not leave a single stone unturned, every portion of these blossoming gardens is carefully looked after, built from perfection by Sam’s two hands.

Crocus sprinkle up from betwixt the cobbled path, little sparks of whispered lilac and burnt umber like hidden jewels amongst the endless expanse of Bag End. Dahlias stand tall and proud from just beneath the painted windows, their bold and striking ruby colour dangerously bright in the wispy light. Other flowers that Frodo cannot name – for he’s never had a head for botanics, for as much as he adores when Sam speaks of their secret language and the way their delicate petals are so fleeting yet so beautiful – are spattered around the garden in such a perfect, natural state. Almost wild, yet with an order that only someone with an attention to detail could truly appreciate. Not one flower in the garden overpowers another. When flames of deepened red and purple blossom from beneath the shrubbery, tiny peeks of gleaming white and lazy purple draw the eye closer, trapping ones very heart and soul into the quiet beauty of the natural world. It is how Sam has planned it, how he has nurtured their vibrancy and their strength to ensure that, no matter where the eye is drawn, there is always a quiet beauty to be beheld.

He heads towards the holly bushes, feet moving on their own as he floats across the haven that Sam has created with his own bare hands. Strong as he may be, Sam’s hands are always gentle and every single one of his actions are careful, filled with a glow of simple love. He sees beauty in places where Frodo would never think to look.

Frodo wonders what Sam sees when he looks at him.

As he nears the holly bushes that line one end of Bag End, Frodo is stooped in his tracks. Ever so softly, there’s the murmur of a lilting tune that whispers in a whimsical hum. The tune is simple, a folk song that Frodo distinctly remembers being belted out at the Green Dragon on the occasions he visits. But this gentle hum is in no way of the same sort as the harsh, drunken shouts of the lads at the Green Dragon after a hard day’s work. Instead, it seems to catch the edges of the cold breeze, twirling amongst the rustling flora and dancing amongst the falling leaves. Frodo is reminded of the elves, their caress of breaths that filter like magic through the eaves of the trees and the reminisce of sunlight. The pictures in Bilbo’s books, fairytales of old where their songs travel between different worlds, intertwining all living things to the endless rhythm of life.

The soft music grows louder, Frodo growing closer until he can just make out the murmur of lyrics, deeply hummed under steady breaths.

He can spy the telltale shimmer of golden curls, soft and gleaming under the dappled sunlight, iridescent against the deepened greens of Bag End. As Frodo approaches, feet padding softly against the ground, Sam looks up with a start.

For a moment, Frodo’s almost certain he can’t remember how to breathe.

Sam’s cheeks are dusted with light pink, the tips of his ears flushed red and his soft lips are rosy, caught enticingly between white teeth. It can’t be seen from this distance, but Frodo knows each and every freckle that dots Sam’s dark skin, every fine line and crease that appears around his eyes as he offers Frodo a shy, tentative smile. _An angel. He’s an angel made from the light of the sun._

“Mr Frodo! You aught t’be inside, sir. ‘‘Tis far too cold out here if you don’t cover yer self up properly.” Sam looks at Frodo’s attire with one brow carefully raised. He hadn’t even bothered to put on a jumper when he’d left, with how much he’d been overthinking the whole afternoon tea thing, and Sam’s right; it _is_ rather chilly out. He’d momentarily forgot about his bared forearms and their incessant chill, for Sam’s pleasant smile had warmed him up more than any fire ever could.

“Nonsense, Sam. It’s not that cold! Besides, I thought you might like some company.” Frodo hopes Sam didn’t catch the almost imperceptible waver to his voice, because Sam’s eyes had just softened in such a way that Frodo is surprised he’s still managing to stand on two feet. His legs feel suspiciously like jelly and it’s growing harder and harder to ignore the dizziness that overwhelms him as he tries not to stare too closely at Sam. “Sir, you oughtn’t be worrying ‘bout me.” Sam says, casting his eyes downwards, attempting to hide away his reddening cheeks, a deep flush that is nothing to do with the cold.

He won’t quite meet Frodo’s eyes and his teeth begin to work on his lower lip. If Frodo was being hopeful, he’d say that Sam was looking… flustered. Nervous, _shy._

He shakes the thought from his head, jostling the cups on the tray as he holds it forward. Attempting to keep his expression light, something casual that will keep the thumping of his heart hidden from Sam’s honeycomb eyes, he steels himself for the words he has ran through his head; a culmination of infinite daydreams and strayed thoughts.

Of course, such imagined scenes usually have endings of a more fanatical nature, more like one of Aunt Lobelia’s romantic novels she keeps on the highest bookshelf; the ones with the sordid language that would make even old Sandyman go red about the ears, but regardless; he had been preparing these words for many a sleepless night. He doesn’t want to stumble on his words, make a fool of himself. He wants to be _perfect_ for Sam, for he deserves nothing less.

He clears his throat, facing Sam with grim determination, desperately hoping he doesn’t trip over his next words. “It must be quite lonely out here, all by yourself. I’d like it very much if you’d join me for a spot of tea.” He pauses, feeling his face grow hot. “If you’re not too busy of course.” In a rush, his words rumble out at Sam’s responding silence. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea at all. Maybe he’s just distracting Sam from his work. _Why did he think this was a good idea?_

“‘Tis not lonely sir, not out here.” Sam’s brow lowers, his hands fiddling with his garden shears. “I’ve got th’ flowers to keep me company.” He’s definitely nervous now, but there’s a soft edge to his voice that makes Frodo’s heart melt. _There will never be someone of a fairer heart than that of Samwise Gamgee,_ Frodo blindly thinks. _You would be infinitely lucky to ever call him yours. Don’t you forget that._

Sam looks embarrassed, as if he regrets the words he has spoken. His hands are pulling and tugging at the gardening shears, sliding and rubbing against their rubbered handles in frantic nervousness. Frodo feels heat pool heavy in his cheeks at the action.

“I’d much rather you be in my company, if that is what you would like, Sam.” Frodo eventually responds after a period of peaceful quiet. His voice is surprisingly deep, thickened by the stirrings of his heart. Self-consciously, he clears his throat once more. “Would you join me?” There’s a slightly awkward pause, but it’s soon overshadowed by a brilliant, slightly nervous, grin. There’s an amused glint in Sam’s eyes that Frodo longs to capture forever, but even he knows that no painting or no picture could ever do such an expression justice. He just hopes that he is the one who can make that light shimmer in Sam’s eyes. That he can make his expression laugh, shine out brightly like a thousand burning suns.

“If y’don’t mine me sayin’, sir, we’ll most likely be better off indoors. You be lookin’ mighty cold.”

Frodo can’t help but feel a bit foolish after those words, standing out in the cold in clothes far too thin for the climate. He should have realised that Sam would much rather take tea in the warmer corners of Bag End, not out in the blistering cool autumn winds. _Of course_ he should have invited Sam inside. He wouldn’t say otherwise, but Frodo can imagine that, if Frodo’s own are anything to go off by, Sam’s bare feet are frozen almost solid. Hobbits are certainly hardier creatures than others may give them credit for, but there’s a limit to that hardiness and Sam has been out here since early morning. Frodo’s only been out here a few minutes and he’s already missing the gentle warmth of the kitchen. Maybe it’s just Frodo’s cushiony life of a gentlehobbit that makes him unable to deal with the cold weather, but Frodo can’t imagine that Sam is entirely comfortable out here either.

“Good idea, Sam.” He eventually responds, when he regains control of his tongue. Sam’s still looking at him with that amused expression, his eyes darkened just so that Frodo’s surprised his words were actually coherent. “Shall we go then?” Cocking his head in an air of faux-casualness, Frodo turns to make his way back to Bag End smial. If he turns quicker than one might consider necessary, it certainly has nothing to do with a strange red flush that’s suddenly overtaken him ever since Sam started looking at him like _that._ He swears his face has never been so hot, it’s a wonder it hasn’t melted off yet.

He doesn’t even turn around to see if Sam is following him. He would be reluctant to let anyone see the darkened hue of his cheeks, _especially_ Sam. He has to ensure he keeps his feelings under control, keeps them in check.

Stepping carefully over the stoned path, he wistfully hopes that the cold winds will cool down his burning face and that any remaining rouge can be blamed on the biting weather, as opposed to the result of a beaming smile from a very loyal, generous and kind gardener.

Upon arriving back inside, the two quickly make their way over to the softened warmth of the kitchen. Sam follows obediently, only a few steps behind. The patter of his feet against the wooded floor are unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

For a brief moment, Frodo allows himself to imagine a world where this is normal. Where Sam will, each evening, follow him down from Bag End gardens and join him for every meal. Soon the sound of Sam’s feet against the floor will become normal, something that makes Bag End no longer seem so large and empty and lonely, but instead warm and sweet and safe, forever joined in one another’s company.

But, unfortunately, dreams cannot always come true. While Frodo may wish for such a thing, he must be grateful for the reality that he has been given with. Just a moment with Sam is worth all its weight in gold, and he will treasure such a thing like Smaug had protected his riches.

Together, they sit at the small table in the kitchen. The tea is poured, the scones shared and enjoyed and they speak of little nothings, how there day has gone and how much work is left in the garden and such. It’s the picture of domesticity and while it brings a glow to Frodo’s heart, it comes with a stabbing pain. He does not think he can have this, not in the way he wants it so.

But for now he must enjoy what he has been given. Enjoy good company and good food and not think to the future. Live now, live right here. _Live with Sam._

They finish their little meal, drain the teapot until there is nothing left and sop up the smears of jar and cream that linger on the china plates. They do all of that until everything is gone. There is nothing left, the sunlight is waning and Sam should be going home.

Frodo longs to think of an excuse for him to stay, but there is nothing. No tasks that need finishing, nothing that can’t be done in the early morrow.

Sam has to go home and this afternoon will end.

The fire is beginning to burn out, the flames no longer so warm or so comforting. Frodo feels a chill on his arms. It is time for Sam to leave. To leave Frodo alone. Again.

“Mister Frodo…” Sam’s voice is quiet, barely a murmur against the crackle of logs. “I’ll be right sorry for this, sir… but I jus’…” His voice lowers in pitch, catching deep in his throat. There’s an unreadable expression on his face, a fire in his eyes that Frodo has never seen before and a quirk to his lips that makes heat rush straight to Frodo’s cheeks. Under the caress of firelight, enhancing the dips and planes of his smooth face, Frodo has never seen anyone look more beautiful.

“Wha-“ Frodo’s question cannot be finished, the words getting trapped in his throat. Without warning, there are soft lips pushing insistently against Frodo’s own.

They’re startlingly warm. Soft and plush, slightly chapped from so much time spent outdoors. They fit perfectly against Frodo’s own, as if that’s where they were intended to be. As if they were made for one another.

But all too soon the touch ends; Sam steps back with his eyes blown wide. Like a deer caught under flashlights, he stumbles away, nervous and guilty and fearful for future consequences that he’s sure will come. Frodo’s still too gobsmacked to properly react, his lips tingling and heart thumping so hard against his chest he fears it will leap out. Finding himself sorely missing the touch they had once held for the most fleeting of moments, he does not answer, or move, or offer anything that will soothe Sam’s racing mind.

There’s a sound that spurts from Sam’s lips, a pained sort of panic, distressed and embarrassed. It strangles in the back of his throat, helpless noise caught in fear. Like a lightning bolt, it shocks Frodo from his daze, he moves his hand, making his own splutters as Sam takes more steps backwards, as if he’s getting ready to bolt.

Frodo’s heart aches at the broken expression plastered on Sam’s face, always so open and honest. It’s a mixture of both hurt and humiliation, a broken heart and shattered feelings. Sam’s heart has always been worn plainly on his sleeve, bared for all to see.

It’s an expression Frodo never wants to witness again.

With no warning but a strange, strangled cry, Frodo grasps Sam by his lapels of his worn cotton shirt and pulls him forward. With their bodies pressed flush against one another, Frodo’s hand resting on Sam’s broad, strong chest, just above his pounding heart, Frodo slams their lips together.

The movement is jagged, forceful, hurried. It’s far too quick and far too rushed, too hard and too sudden, but it’s filled with longing and want. It’s desperate. Frodo can’t let this opportunity slip out of his grasp. Not when he’s dreamt of this, dreamt of Sam’s lips slotted against his own like this.

There are no fireworks, or hot spark of electricity that thrums through his body like lightning. There is no bang, no burst of something loud and bold and booming.

Instead it is soft. The first flower of spring, a white snowdrop peeking from beneath the melting snow. The slow flames of an open fire, tendrils of greyed smoke and heat threading their way under chilled skin. The stars at night, tiny little spots of white that whisper amongst a canopy of black, twinkling smiles amongst the loneliness of dark. It is soft and sweet and Frodo can taste the warm spice of the tea, the sugary sweet of jam and clotted cream. His tongue pushes insistently against the heat of Sam’s own, parting his lips and humming against that encasing heat.

Their lips mould together like the final piece of a jigsaw, as if their touch has made them one; two halves of a whole to make one glorious image. It’s a perfect fit, like they were always supposed to be together, like this. As if it were fate, like they were made to slot together so close, to exchange touches and kisses just like this.

Sam pushes back, hesitance melting away as his arms wind around Frodo’s back; large, strong hands stable in the gentle dip of his spine. It’s a hold that Frodo is thankful for as Sam’s teeth begin to nibble ever so slightly at Frodo’s lower lip. He can feel his knees grow weak, legs stumbling where all feeling seems to have been lost. It’s as if he’s turned to jelly, as if he has become simply boneless. But Sam’s warm, familiar strength holds him upright and the reward of a smile against his lips is more than worth the embarrassment of almost collapsing. There’s a taste hiding beneath that spice and sweet, one that has a flavour Frodo has never tasted before. Something that feels like sunlight rising over the horizon, banishing the dark of night. Something deep and warm and earthy against Frodo’s tongue. It’s Sam’s own flavour, his own intimate part of himself that he’s giving to Frodo, letting him be a part of, hold close as a treasure and keep for himself.

The kiss feels as if it lasts for centuries, as if time has slowed to a standstill and it is just Frodo and Sam, together at the very end of the world. But it still does not feel like long enough when Sam pulls away, breaths ragged and oh so hot against Frodo’s cheek. Like a man trapped in desert heat, Frodo finds himself longing for more. To feel those lips against his own again, to have Sam’s body warm against his side for now and forever. Never before has he longed for something so much. _Selfish,_ his mind supplies, but he cannot find the effort to care. _Let me be selfish and forgive me for it, for I cannot deny these feelings for any longer._

Heavily, they gasp for breath, gazing into one another’s faces. Frodo is taken aback by the darkness of Sam eyes, his pupils blown wide and his lashes lowered, creating shadows across his flushed cheeks.

His lips are puffed, stained pink and shimmering with the stain of saliva. _Well kissed,_ Frodo’s mind supplies, and he longs to feel those lips against his own once more.

“Oh, Sam.” He breathes, voice puffed out in an airless exhale. “ _Oh,_ Sam.” Repeating himself, he leans in for another kiss.

This one is softer, even slower, than the first. Tenderness blossoms beneath their touch, burning hot like the days of midsummer, like steaming cups of tea and touches of fire ablaze.

For now, they continue like that. Trapped in their own little space in time; lost in the fading light of Bag End’s kitchen, quartered off from the rest of the world, resting in their own small corner. It’s love-filled, brimming with light and life and everything good Frodo has ever found on this earth and he never wants to leave it.

Kisses are exchanged, touches and glances and smiles and breathless whispers that tell of sweet nothings and mindless endearments that they murmur against one another in heated passion.

They become lost in the feeling of each other’s hands, stroking and pushing and pulling against deliciously heated skin. Frodo’s never felt anything like it before. He didn’t know it was possible for skin to light up like molten fire, for each touch and each caress to send shivers down his spine and flushed blood to each and every corner of his body. He’s never felt so alive before, not in all his years. Neve has he been so aware of each gentle press of Sam’s fingers, each steamy breath and each husked whisper and sigh and smile.

He’s got his entire world in his hands, Frodo realises as they eventually pull apart, Frodo’s palms cupping Sam’s jaw, the tips of his fingers lost in Sam’s silken curls.

This close, Frodo can count every freckle that dots Sam’s cheeks. He can gaze into those honey-coloured eyes for as long as he wants, see the hidden flecks of forest green that pool in those depths, the threads of gold and orange and hazel that weave through their light like fairy dust. Sam’s lips part, blood-flushed and well kissed, and Frodo’s gaze is brought intently to the dip of his upper lip. “Mr Frodo, I’m s-“

“Don’t you _dare_ apologise for that, Samwise Gamgee.” Frodo interrupts, momentarily taken back by the deep husk of his voice.

“Don’t you dare.” He whispers, bringing his face closer to Sam’s, brushing their noses together.

He rests his forehead against Sam’s own, still slightly breathless.

“Sorry- I mean… t’is jus’… me, sir?” Sam stutters, eyes still blown wide as if he cannot quite believe what has happened. Frodo leans in again, brushing their lips together once more, light and careful yet still with just as much feeling.

“Of course it’s you, Sam. It’s always been you.” Voice low, he moves his hands to find Sam’s own. They’re much larger than his, the fingers stocky and wide compared to Frodo’s own slender ones. His skin is roughened from time spent in the garden, the large palms of his hands calloused over and the tendons on his hands strong and tight.

He meshes their fingers together, revelling in the heat and toughness and feeling of it all, breath quickening as Sam’s hands hold him, so big and strong and safe and comforting.

_His_ Sam, he thinks, and for once the words don’t feel like a shard in his heart. Sam is his to explore, to touch and feel and run his fingers up and down, to tease and stroke and caress, for him to protect and keep safe.

“I didn’a think t’would be any chance of you returnin’ my feelin’s, sir. I-“ Frodo cuts him off again with another kiss, arching his body forwards and melting into that sturdy heat. He squeezes those strong hands intertwined in his, stifling a groan into those parted lips and feeling his legs give way until Sam shifts, holding him upright once more with those tanned arms.

“Oh, Sam.” He says, again. He feels like a broken record, as if he’s just mindlessly repeating the same things, but Sam’s lips against his own have wiped all thought from his mind. He has turned to mush, unable to speak what he is feeling, instead too focused on the person in front of him, the person he has wanted for all of his days.

“Of course I return your feelings.” He eventually gets out, not without great restraint to stop himself from kissing the tip of Sam’s button nose, speckled with the most delectable freckles. “How could I not?”

Without warning, Sam’s touch momentarily leaves. He steps back, teeth chewing on his lower lip and brows ever so slightly furrowed in thought. Looking up at Frodo, his eyes are unusually bright. Tears glisten in the rims of his eyes, sparkling like diamonds in those honeyed pools.

With a gasp, he flings his arms tight around Frodo. Burying his face in the dip of Frodo’s shoulder, taking shaky inhales, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Frodo returns the embrace, squeezing as hard as he can, trying to channel all the love bursting through his heart, sending it down his outstretched arms and the pads of his fingers resting on Sam’s warm sides.

Shifting slightly, Sam’s nose nuzzles into the indent of Frodo’s collarbone, the angles of his face slotting perfectly against Frodo’s chest.

Carefully, Frodo lowers his head, placing a tentative kiss on the golden mass of Sam’s curls. They’re silken, smooth and soft and fresh. They smell of the earth and the wind and the sunlight. Sam moves again, nuzzling in closer and all Frodo has is the warning of a smile bursting against his skin before Sam places a rough kiss against his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

With a gasp, a moan that has Frodo flushing to the roots of his hair, he grabs Sam’s large hands in his own, fingers stroking up and down the fine hairs on his wrists.

“What time do you need to be home?” He asks, hands snaking around Sam’s sides, pulling him up for another lingering kiss.

Sam huffs a laugh and Frodo revels in the vibrations of his broad chest, the feel of that warm body against his arms and the happiness that overflows from his every being at their simple touch.

“It don’t matter, I can make somethin’ up to the Gaffer on th’ morrow.” Frodo brings one of those large hands to his lips, kissing the palm with a tenderness he dearly hopes Sam understands. “I’ve always liked the way you think.” He says with a grin, before intertwining those broad fingers with his own. “Come on then.” With a laugh, the two stumble towards Bag End’s bedroom.

They fumble with one another down the halls, feet slipping against the wooden floors and their movement halted by stolen kisses and burning touches.

The emptiness of Bag End seems to vanish, the lonely halls and the bed that has always been too big disappears. Instead, those empty spaces are lit up by golden hair and a beaming smile.

There will be more than enough time, later, for them to speak of what this is. Time to worry of what others may think and what the future may hold for them. Time to bare their feelings and tread into grounds they had once thought impossible. But, for now, underneath the darkening afternoon, they can take their time to explore each other in a way they never had before.

Now, they can feel one another, be with one another. Join as one and melt together until their edges blur.

_Forever_ , Frodo thinks as he tugs Sam to the feather-soft mattress of his bed. 

Sam’s hands are on Frodo’s sides, touching and caressing and stroking and Frodo has never felt more whole.

Frodo eyes flutter shut and the darkness is illuminated by a smile like sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely loved writing this tbh and I’m hoping there’s more samfro content in me bc I just love these two so much


End file.
